Gays have been serving openly in Britain since 2000
For more than a decade, he had prepared for that moment.
Lt. Cmdr. Craig Jones climbed the staircase into the captain's cabin, with its porthole overlooking the sea and its matched pictures of Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. The captain paused in a conversation with his executive officer and took a seat. Jones looked him in the eye and told him he would never again listen to the captain bash gay servicemen.
It was January 2000, and the captain had just announced that gays in Britain could start serving openly in the military.
"I said, 'Look, it's really simple. I'm gay,'" Jones said. "Whilst the changes in policy may not have had a great impact on you, they have a great impact on me."
The assault ship's rattled captain stuttered. There was a policy, yes — but no one had any idea what to do next. The captain asked Jones not to say anything.
Instead, he ended up saying a lot — all the way up to the British military's highest officials.
After all, he'd had time to consider this. For years, he had led a double life.
Jones joined the navy at 1989, eager for adventure, and got his wish. He intercepted drug dealers in the Caribbean, dropped from helicopters, served in the Shatt-al-Arab waterway dividing Iraq and Iran, tracked arms into Northern Ireland.
Then, at 25, he met Adam Mason, the man who would become his partner. Suddenly, he had something to hide.
Jones and Mason set up a clandestine relationship in Brighton, a coastal community with a relaxed attitude toward gays but far from his ship's home port in Portsmouth. Fearing he'd be betrayed by a casual remark, he told neighbors he was a truck driver for Shell.
"I had a constant fear of a knock at the door by the military police," he said.
This was tough for an officer in the Royal Navy, where men and women spend a lot of time together and work doesn't end at 6 p.m. The bonds extend to families, who support one another during long absences and in times of war and death.
Jones wanted to be part of that. He wanted Mason to be the first to know if anything happened to him, to be provided for in case Jones should die serving his country.
So it all welled up in him that morning in 2000 — all those years of sneaking around.
"I do remember saying to the captain that he had gay men and women on his ship and that he was bound to the same duty of care to them as everyone else," Jones said.
But that was just the start. Jones told other officers — and made clear he didn't mind if they shared the news. When a notice was put up for the ship's ball, he signed up. Though the other officers and their wives welcomed them, he decided against dancing with Mason that first night.
"I thought it was appropriate to be aware of other people's sensitivities," Jones said.
Change came slowly. Though gays could now serve openly, few safeguards existed for those who came out. Jones worried that problems might be used as an excuse to backtrack. He met with personnel committees at the Ministry of Defense, wrote to Cabinet ministers.
And one day when he was particularly angry, he had lunch with the parents of a colleague. Jones didn't hold back. What he didn't realize that he was venting to Lord Armstrong of Ilminister, the former Cabinet secretary for ex-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.
Soon after, an invitation arrived in the mail to spend a weekend at Leeds Castle — a turreted Saxon manor. The Armstrongs had a surprise guest: Lord West, the First Sea Lord, the top dog in Britain's navy.
They bumped into each other in the hallway. Lady West grabbed Mason by the arm, questioning him about the needs of partners.
"She got it in a way that left no doubt she would use her influence," Jones said.
Lord West promised to speak to the officer in charge of personnel. The Royal Navy began to lead. Sailors marched in the gay pride parade. Jones testified, in uniform, before the U.S. Congress. He was honored by the queen for his work in promoting diversity.
He's left the navy now, confident others can carry on. But much had been accomplished. Britain now allows civil unions, for example, enabling partners to get many of the same rights as married couples.
From the "Berlin Wall of inequality," Jones said, "it was the first brick to fall."
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Lord West, now Britain's terrorism minister, spent more than four decades in the Royal Navy, and was commander of the HMS Ardent, a frigate which was sunk during the Falklands War.
In an interview at his office in the House of Lords, West said some of his views on gay people serving in the military were shaped by a non-commissioned officer who he served with on the Ardent.
"Probably my best NCO — a really brave chap, did brilliantly under fire, did all the right things, everything — by the time I became commander-in-chief, he'd finished his time in the Navy. And when he left, he let me know that actually, he was gay," West said. "It really made me think about it."
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Mandy McBain knew what the conversation would be about when her boss told her she could bring a lawyer.
This wasn't just a regular sit-down with a supervisor. And this wasn't just any employer — it was the Royal Navy. What McBain's boss asked her about was more than just an intrusion of privacy. It was a matter of law. Someone had reported her, and she had to answer.
"We didn't have a don't ask, don't tell policy. If you were gay, you were dismissed," McBain says. "If I had answered yes to any of those questions, I would have been dismissed."
So that day in the office, with another senior officer as witness, McBain denied she was in a relationship with another servicewoman — but didn't tell them she was seeing a civilian.
"There's no two ways about it. If I was asked today, 'Did you lie?' I would have to say yes," she said.
Now, along with the anger, she feels sympathy.
"He was one of the best bosses I ever worked for," she says. "It must have been awful for him, because we got along very well. (After) he said, 'Right. Let's put it behind us. Go home, have a gin and tonic, and I'll see you tomorrow.'"
McBain knew from childhood she wanted to serve in the navy; she enlisted in 1986 at age 19. Two years later, she realized she was a lesbian and told her mom, some trusted friends — but not the navy.
"The only choice I had was to lead a double life," she said.
She had a career she loved, but there was a cost. She had to tread carefully when she recounted for colleagues how she'd spent her free time. She didn't get into the gay nightlife scene, worried that one of the patrons at a bar could be a military investigator.
In 2000, when the ban on gays serving in Britain's armed forces was lifted, outwardly, little changed for McBain. There was no big announcement. But inwardly there was a sense of relief, and little by little, she started talking about her girlfriend.
Now, McBain is a lieutenant commander specializing in logistics. While she praises the armed forces — in particular, her beloved navy — McBain would like to see more people working on diversity issues. She believes the top brass understand the benefits of an inclusive military; it's the people below them she wants to reach.
In particular, it rankles when someone tells McBain her sexuality is none of their business, "a private matter."
"They just can't understand me when I say, 'What you do with your wife in the bedroom is a private matter,'" she says. "But when you go for a walk with your wife, and your child and your dog, well, I'd like to hear about that."
The ultimate goal is simple: "I do wish for the day when being gay isn't an issue."
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